


stay

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton's Ripped Shirts, Hydra Clint Barton, M/M, Multi, One Established Relationship, POV Marc Spector, Pre-Slash, Protective Clint Barton, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: They stare at each other for a moment, and then Barton tilts his head. “Moon Knight,” he says. “Or do you prefer Spector?”“Depends,” Marc says, because two can play this game. “Should I call you Hawkeye or Barton?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Marc Spector
Comments: 18
Kudos: 78
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	stay

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for B1, Hydra!Clint

The first time Marc Spector meets Clint Barton in person, they’re both about to climb through the same broken window. It’s an awkward moment all around, really, full of tension and guns and crescent darts and glowering faces. Or rather, just Barton’s glowering face. Marc’s under his mask, so he’s at least not visible.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Barton tilts his head. “Moon Knight,” he says. “Or do you prefer Spector?”

“Depends,” Marc says, because two can play this game. “Should I call you Hawkeye or Barton?”

Barton smirks a little, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “Alright, then.”

Marc gestures to the window. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hydra has questions,” Barton says, fingers tightening around his bow. Marc’s always wondered why he fights with that, but then again, he throws crescent-shaped darts. There’s something to be said about ranged weapons.

Also, the Hydra thing is news to him. “I thought you worked for SHIELD?”

A cold smile crosses his face. “Sometimes. What are you doing here?”

“Investigating,” Marc says. “I have some questions too.”

Barton glances at the window, then shrugs a little. “After you.”

Marc studies him for a moment, then climbs through. He half expects an arrow in his back, but it never comes. Barton just follows him, dropping to the ground of the warehouse next to him.

“This doesn’t make us a team,” Marc says.

“Don’t want to be a team,” Barton replies. “I’ve already got a guy.”

“Where is he?”

Barton’s face shutters a little, expression going cold, and Marc wishes he could take the words back immediately. But then he says, “I’m working on that,” and brushes past Marc. “You coming?”

With nothing else to do, Marc follows him. 

* * *

Their run-ins get a little more frequent, after that. Marc’s out most nights, either trying to satisfy Khonshu’s thirst for blood or his own sense of vengeance, and it becomes a common occurrence to see Barton out and about as well. Not like there’s not enough crime to go around, although to be perfectly honest, Marc’s not really sure _what_ Barton’s doing. But he likes the man more than he’s willing to admit, and oddly enough—despite his original insistence about not being a team—Barton seems to like him too, seeking out his help more and more.

Which is why he’s not surprised to hear a familiar voice one night as he’s picking himself up off the ground, sore and stuff from literally being thrown out of a building. “Moon Knight,” Barton says, and Marc glances to the side to see him leaning against the brick wall. “You look like shit.”

“Mister Knight,” Marc corrects, gesturing to his suit and tie, scowling at the mud now caked on him. The white outfit makes a statement, but these days he’s really debating the merits of intimidation versus his mounting dry-cleaning bills.

“Mister Knight? You change name based on the outfit?”

“Sort of. This one is a little more...police-friendly, let’s say.”

“Uh-huh. What are you doing here?”

“I’m consulting on a kidnapping. What are _you_ doing here?”

“We did the kidnapping.”

Marc stares at him for a moment. “Hydra or SHIELD?”

“Does it matter? They’re the same damn thing these days.”

“Guess not.” That’s interesting, but also not really—SHIELD’s always been a little corrupt. Honestly, he’s not even sure why he’s surprised. He gets up and brushes himself off. “Where’s your one guy you work with?”

Barton frowns. There’s a hint of worry on his face, but he wipes it off after a moment, covering it with a smirk. “Still working on it.”

Marc nods. “Do you want help?”

That gives Barton pause. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” he repeats. “So what, just out of the goodness of your little moon-themed heart?”

“Maybe I know what it’s like to lose people,” Marc says softly.

“Haven’t lost him,” Barton says, a little stubborn. “I know damn well where he is. Just can’t get to him.”

“Why not?”

“Just how things are.” He sets his jaw. “Not for much longer, though. I promised him.”

“Promised him what?”

“That we’d get out.” Barton scowls. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about this. Your kidnapping person will be back on Friday. Probably a little worse for the wear. Hydra’s not known for their hospitality.”

Marc sighs. “You working with these assholes?” He gestures at the building he just got thrown out of. “The Russians?”

“Tangentially,” Barton says. “And reluctantly.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Stay out of it, Spector.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gonna get hurt if you don’t.”

Marc smirks a little under his mask. “You think I give a shit if I get hurt?”

“Maybe you don’t,” Barton says. “But I do. So stay out of it.”

He disappears then, vanishing into the shadows, leaving Marc to stare after him.

* * *

Five or six nights later, there’s a pounding on his door. Marc is actually asleep for once, and it takes him a bit to place what’s going on, blearily stumbling out of bed and going to the door. “Hello?” he mumbles, opening it a crack.

“Spector,” Barton says, shoving it open the rest of the way. Marc barely has time to wonder how the hell Barton knows where he lives before he’s being pushed aside. There’s another man tucked under Barton’s arm—bedraggled, and haunted-looking, and bleeding—

“Put him on the couch,” Marc says, waking up more as he assesses the situation at a glance and goes to get his supplies. “What happened?”

“You see the news?”

“Yeah. The helicarriers in the river—was that you?”

“Manner of speaking,” Barton says, dumping the guy on the couch. “Spector, meet the Winter Soldier. Bucky, meet Moon Knight.”

Blue eyes flick to him—one almost swollen shut—before moving back to Barton. “I don’t need help.”

“Tough shit, man. You’re getting it.” Barton turns to Marc. “I need—yeah, that stuff. Thank you.” He grabs the bag of first aid supplies and dumps it on the coffee table. “Sorry about your couch. I’ll pay for it later.”

“It’s fine,” Marc says. “Can I—do you need a hand?”

“Don’t touch me,” Bucky croaks.

“Hey,” Barton snaps. “You’re bleeding to death, dumbass. I can’t fix it alone. He’s gonna help me. Shut the fuck up about it.”

There’s an argument in those haunted eyes, but he doesn’t protest any further as Marc starts helping. “Are those bullet wounds?”

“Yeah,” Barton grunts, cutting the shirt away. “He’ll heal, but we gotta get the bullet out and clean it, give it some stitches.”

“I have some painkillers,” Marc says, digging in the bag.

“No,” Bucky growls. “No drugs.”

“They won’t work on him anyway. He’s enhanced. Like Captain America.” Barton grabs Bucky’s left hand and pulls the glove off. “Here. Bite it. This is gonna suck.”

Marc stares as Bucky picks up the glove in his left hand, pushing it into his mouth. His whole hand is silver, and plated, almost like—

“Yeah, it’s a robot arm.” Barton shoves a wad of gauze in Marc’s hand. “Ignore it. Not important.”

Marc would argue that it’s a little important, but he does as Barton asks. Bucky grits his teeth, metal plates whirring as he clenches his fist, but he doesn’t move as they start patching him up. He doesn’t even scream. Marc considers himself to be pretty tough, but Bucky makes him look like a baby.

He eventually passes out, though—either from blood loss or pain or exhaustion—and Barton sits back with a sigh, cleaning the blood off his hands. He looks like hell too, shirt more shreds than fabric, and bruises littered all over his skin. “Thanks,” he says. ”I—I don’t think I could’ve done that alone.”

“It’s okay,” Marc says, doing the same. “So...what the fuck happened? What’s with the helicarriers? It’s been all over the news. People are going insane.”

“What happened?” Barton lets out a hollow laugh, shifting his weight on his knees. “Hydra. Hydra happened.”

“I thought you worked for Hydra?”

Barton smirks, a hint of his old self shining through. “Sometimes.”

“What does that _mean?_ ”

Barton sighs. “I was working for them. Did for a long time. I’m—I _was_ Bucky’s handler. Then the more I worked for them, the more I thought they were wrong. And I defected to SHIELD. And then I was a double agent for a bit, playing as an Avenger and a Hydra agent. And now SHIELD is destroyed, and Hydra is on the run, and Bucky is shot all to hell, and I don’t have anywhere to go—”

“Hey,” Marc says softly. “Hey—Clint—” Almost unbidden, his arms come up, tugging Clint forward into a hug. “Easy. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Barton whispers, and he crumples forward, burying his face in Marc’s shoulder. “You—you don’t _know_ —”

“I don’t,” Marc agrees. “But tell you what—whether it is or not, you can stay here.”

Barton nods against his shoulder, making an aborted little sobbing noise. He moves like he’s going to pull away, but Marc doesn’t let go, and after a moment, Barton just half-crawls into his lap, tucking himself against Marc’s chest.

They stay there for a long time, watching the moonlight creep across the floor. Marc rubs soothing circles on Barton’s arm, murmurs quiet words every time there’s a hitched sob or a little shuddering breath.

It’s nearly dawn by the time Barton shifts and pulls back. Marc lets him go this time. “Can I get you anything?”

“A new life,” Barton mutters, rubbing his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—you know—” He gestures awkwardly at Marc.

“It’s okay,” Marc says, and oddly enough, it is. He’s not normally a touchy-feely kind of guy, but he honestly can’t remember the last time he touched someone other than to punch them in the face, and he didn’t realize how much he missed it until this moment. There’s something to be said about human contact.

“There’s gonna be trouble,” Barton mumbles. “People following us.”

“There’s always trouble,” Marc says. “I don’t mind. I go looking for it, most nights.”

“I noticed.” Barton smirks. It’s a little watery, but it’s there. “You and your dumbass costume.”

“Says the guy fighting with caveman weapons.”

“The term is Paleolithic,” Barton says delicately, and he leans over, brushing the hair out of Bucky’s face, murmuring quietly in Russian to him.

Marc watches, some unknown feeling twisting his heart. “You’re staying here, right?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Barton says, glancing at him. “If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

“Then we’ll stay.”

“Good.” Marc starts to get up, intending to leave them alone. He’s not sure what they have, the two of them, but it looks private and he doesn’t want to intrude.

“Stay,” Bucky echoes, and both of them jump. Marc had no idea he was awake. Neither did Barton, by the looks of it, and he quickly leans forward, murmuring something in Russian.

Bucky nods in response, but he’s not looking at Barton. He’s looking at Marc. “Stay,” he says again, voice rough.

Barton follows his gaze up to Marc’s face. “Stay,” he says too, reaching a hand out. “Please?”

Marc looks between the two of them, that feeling twisting in him still. _Longing_ , he realizes after a moment. It’s longing. It’s _wanting._

It’s been a long time since he’s wanted someone. Even longer since someone wanted him back.

And there’s an answer for it, right in front of him. Reaching for him.

All he has to do...is take it.

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by not-the-blue, THANK YOU


End file.
